Rebels of Normality
by JadeBuohler
Summary: John Watson just wants to become a doctor; preferably an army doctor. But soon he meets a street kid by the name of Sherlock Holmes - a seemingly intelligent, yet distraught boy with a dog that follows him everywhere. John takes it upon himself to aid the mind of a traumatized, and brutally treated teen, even when said teen is arrogant, ungrateful, and a bit of a bastard. AU
1. On the Tube

_**A/N:** The plot bunnies were breeding. I heard the song "Who are you, really?" by Mikky Ekko, and it really just inspired this story idea. I really suggest you look up the lyrics. :3 I'd write them on here, but you didn't click on this to read my long ass note, did you?_  
_So I'll just give you a sneak peek:_  
_So you're feeling tied up to a sense of control_  
_And make decisions that you think are your own_  
_You are a stranger here, why have you come? _  
_Why have you come, lift me higher, let me look at the sun_

_I love reading hurt/comfort fan fiction where John takes care of Sherlock, or helps him through something, and so BAM!, I said to myself, "Well, hey, maybe there are other people out there just like you." We'll see, I guess, won't we?_

_I'd like to mention that when I looked up whether dogs were allowed on the tube or not I was met with a very funny answer: Pets and dogs are allowed on London Underground, free of charge. Dogs must be kept on leads. All pets, including dogs, must be carried on escalators. This is for safety reasons (tails can easily get caught in the escalator). [awwww]  
_

_Okay, please leave a review!_  
_And sorry if it's short. _

_OH! And can anyone guess what book the lady is reading?  
_

_(cover is created by meh!) _

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_Summary: _John Watson just wants to become a doctor; preferably an army doctor. And he's not doing so bad - his internship is going, frankly, swell. But then he meets a street kid by the name of Sherlock Holmes - a seemingly intelligent, yet distraught boy with a dog that follows him everywhere. They keep running into each other - John is convinced it's coincidence, fate even, but according to Sherlock the universe is rarely so lazy. John takes it upon himself to aid the mind of a traumatized, and brutally treated teen, even when said teen is arrogant, ungrateful, and a bit of a bastard. **AU**

* * *

**Chapter I**  
_On the Tube_

* * *

John never truly considered the idea of fate.

It was merely a fairy tale in his eyes, something that kept the monsters in the closet. Fate was in league with hope; John, of all people, knew how dangerous hope could be. Fate was defined as the development of events beyond a person's control. John liked to be in control. Perhaps that is why fate had always fallen into the category of terror, horror, danger – in John's mind, at least.

John never truly considered the idea of fate. Until now.

* * *

It was terribly annoying, having to take this noisy, bluggering piece of junk across merely a few blocks of London's fine city, when he could have walked and been right on time – if he had just been patient with his blasted alarm clock. But no – he just had to yell, slam his fist down onto its tiny body, allow it to fall off the edge of his bedside table, and stick his head under his fluffy white pillow, so perfectly well that he could no longer hear any buzzing rings summoning him from sleep. Maybe that's because he had broken the damn thing.

Now he was running late. _Terribly late._

Not to mention, it's only the first month, _Watson_!  
What in the _bloody hell_ is wrong with you!

Sarah was going to kill him. It's official. He'd be found hidden away in the dumpster behind some low-wage biker bar, heart cut out, smelling like rotten flesh. Okay, _sure_, perhaps that's a bit colorful, but Sarah would definitely be pissed.

He sighed as he slid into the lonely, metallic bench, awaiting the next train that fell under his destination. The air was cool, cold _actually_, bustling through alongside the tube that entered on occasion, and startling John, causing his hands to tuck away firmly into his jacket pockets, and his knees to jiggle in anxiousness. He was proud that he had managed to dress rightfully warm in his struggle this morning. Oatmeal shaded sweater, darkly tinted jeans, and green jacket just hovering over the soft cashmere. Well, warm enough at least.

Soon he'd arrive at the hospital, change into his blue blandly designed scrubs, and shuffle around behind the _real _doctor.

_Man_, he couldn't wait until he finally passed all his exams, fulfilled all his needed requirements. He wanted to get in on the action – feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins, save the life of another, feel the pressure of being pushed to the edge of his comfort zone. He was excited just thinking about it.

The rumble of a slowing train engine yanked him from his delectable thoughts, and he quickly looked up, catching sight of his ride just pulling into the noisy station. People were already scrambling to stand on the platform's brink, observing as their tube approached them. Most stood in their business clothes, hemmed skirts or black slacks, typing on their tablets or perhaps their cell-phones, pulled from the land of the living by technological communication. John only shook his head at them (he wasn't much of an electronics person), nearing the standing point as well, where all waited for the train to halt and open its doors.

And when it did, it was like a circus had just ended and the children who had watched were suddenly eager to try every trick themselves. Every man, or woman, shoved against one another, anxious to board their method of transport; eager to get to work, partake in their needed events, and then call it a day.

John was thrown from side to side, a headache brewing from the constant swishing to and fro, before he finally made it through the automatic doors and into the tiny train compartment. With a short glance around, he took notice of an empty seat just near the exit beside a rather distracted young woman, and a well-dressed, older lady.

He swayed forward, aware that he'd have to claim the seat before anyone else tumbled in. He reached its location and fell backwards against its hard, dark blue, plastic surface. He let out a grunt of discontent, which sent the younger woman glancing his way, to which he nodded a firm greeting, and she smiled awkwardly in return, ending all chances of a leisurely conversation by staring back down at the book she was reading. John sighed, spotting the older lady glaring his way in his peripheral vision, and quickly laid his head back against the seat's hard, upper rim.

He was never waking up late again – this was _torture._

As he stayed there, eyes closed, he heard more footsteps pounding around, frantic men and women possibly tardy for work as well, and the shift of automatic doors opening and closing. He heard the clip clopping of eccentric high heels, and the soft claps of fancy dress shoes, most likely worn by men along with handsome suits. Strangely enough, and in rather close proximity, he heard the clicks of – what is that? _Nails_? Perhaps a pet – followed by the final hiss of closing doors and someone on the speaker mumbling, _"the train is now in motion"_.

His eyelids fluttered open, the world tinted a slight blue as his eyes adjusted, and he took in the differences of the tube's intake. Everyone was sitting now, and all was calm, as if the chaos, that had just taken place outside, never happened. John spotted the usual – people on their phones, reading books, listening to music through white headphones, some just chatting away with the person beside them. J

ohn looked at the young woman next to him. _Still reading_.  
He squinted, attempting to read the words written on the current page of her book.

_"_ _It was times like these when I thought my father, who hated guns and had never been to any wars, was the bravest man who ever lived." _

As John read it, only briefly as the elderly woman was glowering at him again, it made him think of his own father – almost the opposite of what the book described, apart from the "bravery" statement. He'd always been John's hero – survivor of war, medical genius. He missed his family. It'd been a while since he'd seen them – they lived far from the depths of London, and John didn't get much visit time, and now they were much too old to travel to his own humble abode – a flat he could barely keep hold of. But he stayed in contact: phone calls, Skype, emails, and so on.

Harry on the other hand was a different story. He let her be, and that includes allowing her to experiment with her sexuality (she was interested in girls) and her drinking (she was a bit of an alcoholic). It was only after Clara died, her first girlfriend, that she really went downhill.

John cleared his throat and shook his head, attempting to rid himself of the pitiful topic his mind had dwelled on. He caught a glimpse of the older woman again. Somehow, she had now dozed off, mouth wide open catching flies, and eyes nearly rolled all the way back.

John shivered.

Just as he turned to face forward and close his own eyes again, he froze upon seeing something quite interesting – or rather,_ someone_. A being, his dark grey hoodie draped over his face, hiding whatever expression or visage he held, and a red, Irish setter sprawled out by his feet – no leash, no collar. John narrowed his eyes, now taking the mysterious figure in farther.

He was tall, unbelievably tall, and thin, much too thin, terribly thin. He wore washed out and faded, light blue jeans, seemingly torn and wrecked by god-knows-what. His hands were tucked away in the front pocket of his grey hooded jumper, and he was leaned casually against the tube window behind him, the backdrop like a motion picture.

He was wearing rather interesting shoes, flat and black, white laces, and a white rim around the edge. Headphones were lying effortlessly on his stomach, sprouting from his front pocket, and trailing up the curve of his jacket, vanishing under the depths of his hood, which pointed downwards as though he was trying very hard not to be seen.

John waited until the precise moment the boy looked up and he was instantly mesmerized by the foreign and rather exotic appearance. The boy's pale blue – maybe silver? Turquoise green? – eyes fixed on John's wide-eyed expression, and the medical intern immediately flushed.

He seemed to be, maybe, nineteen? Twenty? Definitely not John's age of twenty-three.

His skin was incredibly pale, contrasting well with the dark grey of his hooded jumper, and his face appeared as though it had been sculpted, beautifully and carefully – _Michelangelo had nothing on this kid._ His lips formed a perfect _cupid's bow_, a pale, subtle pink, and John could just see the fringe of curly, dark brown hair – wavy and divine like that of rich chocolate.

But his expression was twisted into that of distrust, perhaps discontent, which John understood in a place like this. Too many people, too much noise. He glanced down at the earphones the kid still wore, wondering slightly what he may be listening to. From the kid's punk-like appearance, John would say heavy metal maybe, perhaps even an easy rock playlist.

He wasn't sure why he found himself so compelled by the being. He was just different from anyone John had taken witness to before. He knew no one, he had seen no one, who appeared so very exotic, so very surreal. He tried to observe the kid more discretely, whenever that calculating gaze dropped onto his expression, but it was terribly hard under the eyes of the very figure.

He held a gaze that seemed so very intelligent, so very wise. He almost looked as though he knew too much for someone his age. Perhaps he did. He watched minutely as one of the being's hands removed itself from his jacket pocket and landed swiftly on the dog's head, whom of which leaned into the touch, tail wagging happily.

It was captivating to John, as he observed this young man, dog warming his feet effortlessly, appearing impossibly clever, impossibly intelligent.  
John wondered if he really was.

He didn't get the chance to find out, however, because as soon as the automatic doors opened with a hiss, and the speaker stated a muffled, "Mind the gap", the remarkable being, John had been gaping at for at least more than five minutes, was gone – no trace of a dog or a hooded figure anywhere.

John sighed, shook his head, and prepared himself for a day of work – and Sarah's scolding.


	2. The Park Bench

_A/N: Hello! Yes! So! Here is chapter II! I just want to say THANK YOU so much guys!_  
_I didn't expect so many follows on just the first chapter! Thank you again!_  
_Thank you silvermouse and C0HR for reviewing! Means a lot to me!_

* * *

**Chapter II  
**_The Park Bench_

* * *

John was, in fact, starving – in that entirely uncomfortable way, where your gut feels as though it's bound to cave in, and you're certain you're going to die. He knew better of course, and he wasn't one for the theatrics, but once his shift was over, and he finally had clearance to take his longer break, he took off towards the nearest café, eager to grab a cup of coffee and preferably a sandwich.

Now, he sat, head leaning back against his chair's upper rim, eyes shut under the shade of a café umbrella, as he chewed effortlessly on his option of nourishment. The eggs were creamy, mixed in alongside mayonnaise, and he enjoyed the slightly bitter taste of it all. Egg salad sandwiches always reminded him of his childhood; his mother used to make him one, occasionally, to pack in his school lunches, and he remembered sitting in class, counting down the minutes before he could dig into the delectable sustenance.

As he ate, he observed the civilians walking past him, watching their every move, wondering about who they were, what they did, whom they were with. He watched two parents pushing their child in a decorative stroller, while chatting amongst themselves pleasantly. He saw a man sitting near a blissful, park fountain, laptop resting above his knees, while he scanned it's inners for god-knows-what. He saw an elderly woman speed walking, circling the trees and playground in fluent, yet uneven, strides. John couldn't help but smile at how goofy she appeared.

His eyes then fixed on another figure's position. It was a boy – _the_ boy. _The boy_ from the tube – and he was standing, amongst a rather small crowd, a bow in one hand and a violin in the other, playing a swift melody John could only faintly hear. His dog was at his feet, all the same – long auburn fur sprawling out around its position and tongue hanging in contentment.

The medical intern's eyes went wide and he stared in content, watching how gracefully the boy swayed to and fro, pale, slender fingers plucking each string with poise, eyes shut tight as he fell deep within the depths of his hauntingly peaceful rhythm. The instrument nearly glowed in the bright light of the day, with it's deep mahogany shade – the cold wind occasionally throwing off the sun's position and illustrating a compelling gleam across it's delicate body.

The kid was still wearing his dark grey hooded jumper, but his hair was revealed and it wasn't even the slightest of what John had expected. _Sure,_ it was long, curly, and a dark, rich brown, but it was absolutely wild. The locks went here and there, sticking out in ways one would think unappealing. But it wasn't – it was rather endearing. It seemed to be a part of the boy that was entirely untamable. John marveled over the being, both surprised and concerned at the fact that he had seen him here, the same day, in the park across from where he sat, playing his violin in hopes of acquiring a few cents.

John wasn't sure when it happened, but sooner than later he found himself on his feet, swaying nonchalantly over to the street performer. John didn't believe in fate, really, or chance, but this seemed like a moment he might regret if he didn't at least say one thing to the boy he found so bewildering.

So he approached him, feet seemingly moving in slow motion as his eyes stayed fixed on the figure caressing the violin by the neck, enveloping himself in a surreal melody. John could see the crowd beginning to disperse, leaving with a mere toss of a few coins into the kid's black instrument case. It was rather agonizing to John – observing the handful of people simply flinging the boy a couple cents when it was obvious he deserved so much more.

So when John finally reached the performer, squeezing through the last of the vanishing audience, he dropped in more than enough in pounds. And because of such gratitude, the musical artist lifted his head; jaw leaving its position on the black, chinrest attached to the overall mahogany coloring. John met eyes with the street performer, the same pale blue eyes, and managed a smile, waiting a moment for the rest of the listeners to continue about their leaving.

When he was finally alone with the boy, he took a moment to compose himself before stating, "It seems we have a knack for running into each other."

When the kid didn't answer, only staring, eyes narrowed in confusion, John nodded his head and shrugged his shoulders.  
_Sure,_ he hadn't officially met the kid, he'd simply observed him, and they'd run into each other merely twice. Somehow, it just felt like the right thing to say.

The stranger cocked his head to the side, causing his curls to bounce, as if entirely incomprehensive to what John was attempting to say. John glanced at the dog, which seemed to be staring at him in almost the exact same manner.

He took a step forward, ran a hand over his dusty blonde hair, and cleared his throat, "S'pose it's just a coincidence." John chuckled to himself, and waved to the flummoxing figure of the boy, figuring he should leave the kid be, before the situation got too awkward, "See you around."

He turned to head in the opposite direction of the café he'd just exited, tucking his hands into the warmth of his front jacket pockets, glad that he had done what he was itching to do – talk to the kid.

"The universe is rarely so lazy." The deep baritone had him whirling back around, deep, cobalt eyes widening in surprise, followed by his swallowing of the knot forming in his throat. It was a low, intimidating voice for a kid of his apparent age, but John found it suited him quite accurately.

The medical intern tilted his head in a lack of understanding, "Sorry, what?"

The street performer lowered his violin to it's navy velvet and black case, tucking it in, mindful of the cash thrown inside, and positioned his loosened bow in its correct holster.

"I said: the universe is rarely so _lazy_."

John leaned back in surprise at this – it was, of course, a very unique, and frankly interesting, thing to say.  
"You think?" He asked pleasantly, taking a few more steps towards the boy's position on the bench, eyes narrowed in thought.

The kid nodded, pale blue orbs darkening slightly in contrast to his terribly pale white skin, "Coincidence doesn't exist. Things just _are_. Take Newton's third law, for example: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction."

The being looked up at John with intelligent eyes, but as the silence passed on, they soon turned fearful, in some weird manner of way. The boy turned away with shaking hands, reaching into his pocket on the search for something, and sent a nod John's way. "Sorry."

John's brow furrowed in confusion, glancing at every single detail on the kid's face, watching every reaction, every lack in emotion. "Sorry? What are _you_ sorry for?"

The figure didn't answer; he simply pulled out what he needed from his pocket, and left John nearly gaping. The boy, however old he was, tore out a package of cigarettes, fingers trembling in anxiousness as he lifted one to his mouth, dragged out a lighter, and lit the end with a hunger for his source of fuel.

John cleared his throat suspiciously, "Those will kill you, you know."

The boy merely scoffed, and nodded mindlessly, otherwise preoccupied by having his smoke.

John took a step forward and pointed to the bench just next to the kid's position. "You mind?"

When the being shook his head, expression slightly bright with surprise at John's action of asking, John took the invitation to heart and sat down onto the wooden surface with a gentle thump. The boy turned, left the cigarette hanging from his lips, clipped shut his violin case, petted his companion on the head, and fell back against the bench as well.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were following me." The kid stated effortlessly, eyes fixating on John with a calculating gaze.

John swallowed, feeling terribly scrutinized.

"But I know better." The figure added, and John couldn't help but chuckle a bit at it.

Here he was, sitting beside – what? A nineteen year old? – whom he barely knew anything about, and whom he had barely even said more than ten words to. He felt like quite the creep.

"I assure you, I'm not a pedophile." John teased shamefully, embarrassed he even had to say it allowed – he wasn't trying to be pushy; he merely just wanted someone to talk to. Work was boring. And honestly, most _people_ were boring. _But not this kid_. No, this kid was certainly _not_ boring. He was different, intelligent and bewildering.

The being sat next to him on the bench and turned to stare John down, eyes vibrating over his every detail – every organ, every cell.

"That's exactly what a pedophile would say." The kid spoke the words with such nonchalance it was unnerving. He took a drag of his cigarette and gazed straight forward, towards the groups and vehicles full of mindless people, attention seemingly drifting off John for a mere moment.

John swallowed and shook his head, humorously ashamed of himself, "I can leave if you like."

The boy immediately flinched at that, and all his attention was back on John. "No, it's not my bench. Who am I to say who can sit here and who cannot?"

John pondered this for a moment before clearing his throat with a nod, "No, guess you're right." Those eyes met his again, and it seemed like a few years went by before the kid turned away and back towards the other civilians, curls bouncing pleasantly.

John smiled briefly before glancing down at the longhaired setter, now lying atop the boy's feet, head flat on the ground, ears cascading outwards on each side of its fluffy head.

"Who's this guy?" John questioned, grinning politely as he reached down toward the dog, eager to set a pat on the softness of its auburn fur.

The kid leaned forward a bit, as if slightly panicked,  
"Redbeard," He began, raising a hand uncertainly, eyes wide as John got closer and closer to petting the hound, "He doesn't normally take to strangers –"

The figure on the bench didn't finish his statement. He simply watched in awe as John drew long strokes across the dog's satin like red fur, and John found it slightly amusing.

"Guess he likes me." John chuckled, continuing his gentle caressing, now beneath the animal's ears.

The boy nodded hesitantly, and blinked several times before snapping out of his blank gaze. He took a moment to adjust himself, before reaching over steadily, to grab hold of his small, black violin case, lifting it over the dog and placing it on the bench's empty space, directly beside him.

John supposed he merely wanted something to do with his hands, to sneak away from an awkward silence, seeing as though he had only just momentarily been drawn speechless. John, however, found it as a new source of conversation.

"You're good at that, you know."

The boy's head flew up to look the medical intern in the eyes, seeming awfully confused and a slight bit unsettled. The kid shifted faintly in his seat before going about his smoking, as if trying to hid himself from the conversation. Perhaps the kid just didn't like praise. Or didn't get enough of it?

But, in the current situation, the street performer answered with a blunt, "Hm, yes."

John scoffed in amusement, slightly silenced by disbelief, and claimed by bewilderment, "Let's not be _too_ modest now."

The boy looked up at John, and the intern was sure he saw a faint smirk there somewhere – somewhere on that pale, perfectly chiseled expression. The boy's facial features, however, soon altered to tell a different story. They signified guilt, distrust, and even a pinch of fear.

John swallowed, concern etching across his visage, as he straightened up in the wooden seat beneath him, "What's your name?"

The boy arched a brow at this, seemingly regaining his dignity, "What's yours?"

John shook his head, amused by the situation, "I asked you first."

"_Irrelevant_; I asked you second."

The medical intern simply gazed in amazement – who is this kid? Out here, on his own, with a face like that, smoking cigarettes and sitting on park benches with his dog, his violin, and a college kid he doesn't even know.

"You're a clever one, you know that?" John teased, even though he was entirely serious. He observed as the boy drew back, appearing as though shaken by the sincere half-compliment. John felt like he was simply the only person who ever said anything nice to this kid at all. He shrugged, figuring perhaps the boy really didn't want to share his name, and instead reached out his hand. "John. John Watson."

The boy's eyes fell down to take in the pale palm extended his way. He visibly gulped and gazed up to John, appearing almost helpless – desperate, desperate for help. When he still didn't take the hand, John smiled encouragingly, "I won't hurt you."

He had meant it as more of a persuasive tease but the kid seemed emotionally relieved that John had given him permission, and had reassured him of that little fact. The kid took the offered hand shyly, and gently shook it up and down, a small smirk forming at the corner of his lips. His hand was small, pale, and cold in John's, not to mention, gone in a blink of an eye. This kid obviously didn't like _physical communication_.

"You're a medical intern? Looking into the army?" His deep baritone suddenly asked.

John froze, eyebrows furrowed in sudden confusion, as he tried to correctly decipher precisely what the boy had just said, "How did you know…" He trailed off and the kid leaned an inch farther forward.

"I didn't know, I _observed_."

"Observed?"

"_Deduction_."

"Deduction?"

The boy huffed in irritation and shook his head steadily, "God, what are you, John? A bloody parrot?"

John chuckled and shook his head, still incredibly mesmerized, "Apologies."

The stranger went silent, sitting on the bench completely still, like a statue, eyes fixed on Redbeard and the floor.

"But seriously," John began, desperate to know, "how'd you," he paused, "deduce that?"

The boy cleared his throat, seemingly growing very nervous, "I simply observed, as I said before."

John nodded, eager for the kid to reveal his secrets, "And what did you observe that told you what you, in turn, told me?"

The boy took a deep breath and John immediately stiffened.

"The way you hold yourself says military, or looking into it – most likely a complete militarily influenced family." The kid's eyes dropped to John's hands, "Your fingers are calloused and rough, I felt it when you shook my hand, and you smell faintly of disinfectant. That says hospital job to me. Therefore, medical field – most likely a medical intern going by your age. I'd say doctor. Balance of probability."

The boy scoffed at himself and shook his head, "_Sure_, you could be a nurse or something, but your stance, and way of speaking, screams leadership – which ultimately mixes well with a military background." He took a deep, breathless gasp for air, and cleared his throat, once again, "Therefore: ambition? Military. Current occupation? Medical intern. End result? Army doctor. Was no difficult leap."

John gulped, nodded, and remained speechless for a good ten minutes. The kid was spot on – immaculately clever.  
The boy looked away instantly, seeming to cower into himself, attempting to hide his face away from any scrutiny John may have.

"Wow, you're a bloody genius."

The boy's head whirled to face the medical intern, absolutely stunned – perhaps more surprised then John himself. "I'm sorry?"

"I – well, that – that was amazing." John reiterated, ignoring his stumble of words. He was in awe of this kid – just, in _awe_.

The boy's head cocked in suspicion, "You think so?"

John nodded immediately, "Yes, of course. It was extraordinary – quite, extraordinary."

The kid was frozen still by disbelief, wide pale blue eyes watching John carefully, as if any other movement would set him off, have him running away like a frightened kitten.

And when John's phone rang, he flinched instantly.

John cursed under his breath, and held up a finger to the boy, asking him to simply wait a moment.  
John got to his feet quickly, fished his phone out of his pocket, and took quite a few steps away from where they were sitting.

"Hello?"

_"John?"_ It was Sarah, of course. She would be the one to ruin a fantastic conversation with an insanely interesting kid.

"Yeah."

"_Look, I know it's your break and all, and you're not even a real doctor yet, but we need your help. Patients are pouring in by the dozen."_ Her words were said clearly and quietly, in her soft-spoken tone of voice.

"You got it. I'll be there."

_"Thank you so much."_

"No problem."

John hurriedly ended the call, and turned back toward the bench, eager to sit down and learn more about the boy's – he just realized he didn't have his name yet – deductions and genius mindset.

But his face fell. The seat was empty, the violin case had vanished, there was not a single red-dog hair left behind, and the boy was completely absent – no trace of his existence, but John's memories and a flattened cigarette butt, clinging mindlessly to the gravel below.


	3. The Diner

_A/N: Here we are again! Thank you for all the reviews! Please, I'd like to see more! _  
_I need the encouragement to get this out to you guys! 11 followers as of now! Thank you so much! _  
_Can I get 11 reviews on the chapter? ;)  
Enjoy!_

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**Chapter III  
**The Diner

* * *

He'd survived it. He'd survived another week of interning in the medical department, behind the know-it-all Dr. Tom Higgins, who clapped for himself whenever he performed a diagnosis, in his words, "absolutely stunningly". John couldn't take much more of him. He'd always strut around in his ugly white sneakers, adjusting his white coat that topped mint green scrubs, and flick his name tag on occasion as if to remind everyone he's a doctor, who's paid a large abundance of unnecessary pounds, that he doesn't deserve and spends unwisely. He'd even hit on the nurses, once or twice, bearing that eager grin and sporting it as though he was some Prince Charming. John felt despicable just thinking about him, and having to trot around behind him like a loyal puppy, everyday, was absolutely sickening. He was counting down the months – the weeks – till he could finally walk circles, in confident strides, around the arrogant, slimy bastard.

John sighed as he fixed his shimmering green jacket, damp from the cold air. It was going to rain today – nothing new of course. This _was_ London. He reached forward, gripping the handle to the small diner he'd chosen to eat at, and felt the rush of warmth cascade over him in a wave of comfort. _Speedy's_ was supposed to be a lovely little place; Mike Stamford, one of his university mates, had said so. John took his word for it, seeing as though Mike had recently developed quite the round companion in his forefront – he'd openly admitted it himself, anyway.

John took a glance at the sign outside before entering.  
_Speedy's_ – Sandwich Bar and Café: Breakfast, Lunch, and Pasta.

John flicked his tongue over his lips, and hummed in approval, deciding with every fiber of his being that he was, in fact, quite hungry – if the rumble of his stomach was any indication. He entered the little diner and smiled at the homeliness of it all.

He took notice of the vintage gray curtains, and the display case revealing pastries and homemade goodness. He gazed pleasantly at the mahogany colored tables and chairs, the old lady grinning happily from behind the register at a most likely frequent customer, and the shiny, square mirrors glistening gleefully in the back of the shop.

He even spotted the – John froze, eyes widening in surprise, disbelief, and utter confusion. From above a white mug, pale blue eyes glowered sharply, calculatingly, his way, locks of rich brown hair increasing their enveloped darkness. The ever-present red setter was there as well, sniffing its nose at John's familiarity – happily perched at the boy's feet. When the blue eyes flickered in a sense of recognition, John's still form staring straight back, the teacup lowered and an audible huff was heard over the near emptiness of the snug diner.

"You have got to be kidding." The deep baritone laced with annoyance was enough to send John in a small spur of chuckles.

He lifted a hand in surrender and smiled genuinely, "I swear I'm not doing this on purpose."

The boy rolled his eyes, but they instantly altered from irritation to sincerity, and he folded his fingers on top of the table in front of him. "Don't worry. I believe you."

John was mildly shocked by the sudden understanding in the kid's ever so solemn, pale eyes, and he nodded his head slowly, his own eyes narrowed in slight suspicion. "Right," He smiled politely, "I'll sit as far away as physically possible then, shall I?" He moved to head toward a lone table located in the very back of the diner, but was suddenly stopped by the frightened look on the boy's near-white expression.

"No!" The kid shrieked hastily, and when John shot him a confused look, he fixed himself and went on, "Uh, no. I – _um_ – I could use the company."

The medical intern's eyes widened, and he considered the idea while staring directly at the mysterious figure. The kid didn't seem like a real people-person, and John had tried his best not to be clingy or too talkative the last time they ran into each other. But now? Now, he was asking John to sit with him – this enigmatic teen, eyes vibrating lazily off the other customers in the diner, hair ruffled in aggravation, slender fingers grasping the handle of his mug of coffee – or tea. John swallowed, caught a glimpse of the elderly cashier gazing knowingly his way, and then neared the small table the young being sat at. He lowered himself down until he was at firm eye level with the figure sipping his beverage in front of him.

John cleared his throat, "Cold outside, isn't it?"

It was meant as a conversation starter, but the look the intern received didn't seem overly fond.  
"Please, Dr. Watson. If we are going to talk, let it be about something fairly interesting. Not this dull, predictable weather."

John chuckled at the boy's words and shook his head, "Not a doctor yet."

Before either of them could say another word, a younger woman approached the table, eyes fixed gently on both men sitting at the small mahogany surface. "What can I get you?" She asked, and John immediately fell at a loss.

He tried to think as quickly as his mind would allow. The kid was skinny, overly skinny, and from what John had observed, the boy didn't have much money. His fashion was adequate – a normal hooded jumper and jeans, with quite the elegant pair of plimsolls – but it didn't seem that he enjoyed spending money on trivial things. So the _first thing_ that came to John's mind was: the kid was malnourished because he didn't have enough money to spend on good food. _The second:_ as hungry as John was at this very moment, he could not eat a steaming, piping meal in front of a boy that was as thin as a rail.

"Just a hot tea, thanks." John answered reluctantly, receiving a nod from the woman and a friendly smile, before she quickly swayed away to fetch his order.

"_John_." The boy's suddenly firm use of his name had him whirling around in suspicion and bemusement.

"Hm?" John hummed and narrowed both eyes expectantly.

"Order something."

John blinked and arched a brow, "Sorry?"

"You're hungry." The boy stated, taking another sip of his warm drink.

"And how do you deduce that?" John asked, but when he received a look that said, _"Are you daft?",_ he immediately cringed and shook his head as if to take it back. "_Right_, okay."

"Don't pity me, John." The kid said, head hanging down, staring into the dark brown depths of what looked more like a straight black coffee, rather than tea.

John swallowed and shook his head, eyes narrowed as he fell somewhat ashamed of himself. "Well, I-"

The boy quickly cut him off, "I'm not even hungry."

When the woman returned with his steaming tea, he grinned politely and, before ordering, glanced at the boy for reassurance. The kid nodded, eyes still staring down at his coffee, and John placed his order for a small plate of _beans on toast_. He'd eat a little, but not a whole lot – not in front of this too-thin teen. After the woman left, John was slightly unnerved by the silence that followed, and he fiddled with his mug of tea, taking quick sips, or smoothing his finger over the rim of its fragile make-up. It was the boy's audible sigh that brought him out of his blank trance.

"You have questions." The deep baritone stated without hesitation.

John nodded in agreement, "Yes, actually, but it's not really my place."

The boy shook his head, and waved a hand in defiance, "Ask away."

"Really?" John nearly gasped, quite taken with such an enigmatic boy's sense of admittance.

"Yes. If I don't like the question then I simply won't answer."

"Alright."

John took a deep breath and went right on with it, immediately aware of every question he had – and there were many. "What's your name?"

"William, but I tend to go by Sherlock."

John smiled at the unique name, "Why?"

"It's one of my middle names." He paused, "William Sherlock Scott Holmes." Sherlock replied confidently, taking the moment to sip on his cooling coffee.

John did the same, pondering his next question, and admiring the elegant title.  
"How old are you?" The medical intern asked, eyes narrowed in concentration, as he was eager on knowing the truth about this boy.

"How old do I look?" Sherlock countered, brow arched in suspicion, as he gazed calculatingly at John.

John shrugged, "I'd say nineteen, twenty?"

"Seventeen."

John leaned back against his chair, eyes wide with disbelief. _Seventeen_?  
"What, really?"

Sherlock nodded, "Just turned."

"Bloody hell." John remarked and scoffed, reaching for his mug of tea, to take, yet again, another sip – this time, fuller.

"Why's that so shocking to you?"

"Well, you just look and act older, I suppose."

"Hm."

John took a moment to really look at the boy.  
Eyes wise and incredibly intelligent, gaze slightly solemn and downcast, lips seemingly turned into a frown, brows furrowed in constant concentration.

"Okay. Why are you alone?"

Sherlock's head shot up at this, and his eyes narrowed in apprehension to the question, "I'm sorry?"

John held his ground, expression firm, but not too pushy, "Why are you alone?"

"Who says I'm alone?"

"Sherlock, come on," John scoffed and shook his head, brows raised knowingly in the boy's direction, "I've seen you three times: alone on the tube, alone in the park, and alone in an old diner."

Sherlock's head lowered in a means of submission, and John could've sworn he was pouting,  
"Redbeard's with me."

John gave him a floppy look, his eyes saying visibly that that feeble excuse didn't count. "_Why are you alone?_"

Sherlock looked up from his coffee, blinking somewhat nervously, "Because I can be."

John furrowed his brows, folding his hands in his lap, and leaning back in his chair, "And you want to be?"

The boy before him nodded faintly, eyes dropping, again, to the table, "Yes."

"How come?"

"_Think time._ Silence."

"Hm."

John watched the boy sit there, his mind most likely spinning with all the intellect it had to put up with. Sherlock was smarter than anyone John had ever met, and John wondered if this was _because_ he was alone. Perhaps, people just slowed him down. Perhaps, _John_ even slowed him down. It was disappointing to think about, so John simply cleared his throat, "You're a mystery, you know that?"

Sherlock smirked mischievously and took a sip of his coffee, "I do."

John looked around the diner to decidedly think of another question, but instead saw the elderly lady, who had originally been standing behind the cashier, smiling widely his way, a warm plate sitting in her hands. She approached the two of them, her gray-brown hair bouncing, and her floral dress swaying out majestically behind her. "Got yourself a new friend then, Sherl?" Her voice was soft and caring, and instantly John thought of his mother – the two both spoke with such grace and poise. As she placed his meal before him, John glanced to Sherlock, whose whole body posture straightened, causing his intelligent outlook to increase, which John didn't think was possible.

"Ms. Hudson, it is impossible for me to have a _new_ friend, when I, in fact, never had any friends in the first place."

The old woman seemed visibly upset by this as she winced upon turning to John, "Dear me."

She then extended her hand and smiled a wary, yet pleasant, smile toward the medical intern, "Marie Hudson."

John reached forward, claiming her hand, and shaking it gently up and down, "John. John Watson."

She grinned at his response and bobbed her head to and fro in some sort of giddy happiness, "Nice to meet you."

Sherlock seemed to sigh at their interaction and John instantly found himself beaming at the kid's amusing expression of irritation. Ms. Hudson gave Sherlock a soft, playful whack on the shoulder, which only had the boy rolling his eyes in rebellion.

"I do hope Sherly isn't bothering you too much."

John laughed at the feral nickname and shook his head genuinely, "No, no! Quite the opposite. He's my source of conversation."

The elderly lady brightened at this and she began to giggle rather sincere giggles, much to Sherlock's apparent disgust. "Oh, how lovely!" She grinned, patting the being before John on the back, and turning toward the kitchen once more, "I'll just leave you to it then." She knelt down in one swift movement, giving Redbeard a soft scratch behind the ears, before turning to Sherlock in her departure. "Sherlock, you know you're welcome here at any time, right?"

John watched as Sherlock nodded, hiding his face, now, behind loose and messy, hanging curls.

"I've told you, come here whenever you like, so long as you don't have to return to that hell house of a home. Am I clear?"  
She warned him with stern eyes, and instantly Sherlock cleared his throat, wincing slightly, "_Crystal_."

She left with a final smile to John, and disappeared behind the display counter.

John gulped, feeling faintly out of place now, having taken witness to the, obviously, personal conversation. It left so many more unanswered questions about the boy, and John was about to take action. "What did she mean by that?"

"Nothing. Not important." Sherlock didn't look up.

"Alright." John kept his eyes fixed on the boy's still position, observing his awkward shift in position, his nervous breathing pattern. It was like he was afraid. _But afraid of what?_

"What?" Sherlock snapped, obviously having felt John's gaze blazing into him.

John shrugged, "Nothing, I just figured that must be one of those questions you don't want to answer."

Sherlock's eyes flicked upward, meeting in the middle to stare John down, firmly and rather harshly. He had taken note of the double meaning behind John's statement, realizing John was onto him – that John was trying to help, but Sherlock wasn't allowing it.

"_Brilliantly_ deduced." The teenager merely replied, and took the final sip of his almost empty coffee.

John chuckled to himself, already used to the boy's sarcastic attitude. "Are you related to her?"

"Ms. Hudson? No."

"Right, just good friends then?" John had expected the answer. He wasn't sure why he even asked.

"I don't have _friends_."

"Right, course." John sighed inaudibly, gazing wistfully at the unsettled boy in front of him.

"I'm just her charity case." Sherlock suddenly sputtered and John was already caught off guard.

"That's rather harsh."

"It's true."

"How do you know?" John asked in suspicion, leaning forward to spoon some baked beans into his mouth, having just realized he hadn't yet started his meal.

"My current situation is all she worries about," Sherlock hesitated, eyes seemingly searching for words that should come next but were being stubborn, "She simply pities me. That's all."

John narrowed both eyes, his brows furrowed in a lack of understanding, "And why does she pity your _current situation_?"

Sherlock merely sent him a frigid, dark glare.

John nodded; understanding clearly that the boy wasn't keen on discussing the matter, "Sorry. Don't want to push it."

"Any other questions, John?" Sherlock asked, after his eyes flicked over to the exit of the diner and then back to John.

"One actually."

"Go for it."

"What's your favorite color?" John knew the question was simple, and fairly ridiculous, but he wanted to know – _simple as that_. He just wanted to know as much as physically possible about this kid.

"I don't appreciate dry humor, Dr. Watson."

"Not a doctor yet, and it's not a joke."

Sherlock raised a brow in suspicion and scoffed, "Favorite color; are you serious?"

John nodded, smiling encouragingly at the young boy, "Yes. I'd like to know."

Sherlock seemed to take a moment to think, mind visibly working hard to think about each and every color out there. John was quite sure that the boy had never been asked this question before.

"Glaucous."

Before John could even respond to the utterly unheard of color, Sherlock was striding towards the diner exit, Redbeard following close behind, tail wagging to an endless rhythm inside the dog's head.

"I am quite sure I will see you around, Dr. Watson."

John nodded to his farewell, and watched as the pale boy disappeared into the dark, stormy aura of London's outside.  
The medical intern smiled to himself, _not a doctor yet._


	4. In the Library

**A/N: So sorry for the wait guys! But this is fairly long! :3 Please ****review! *hugs***

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Chapter IV: _In the Library_

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John Watson loved reading. It was his escape, his outlet for adventure and impossible happenstances in his incredibly dull, predictable, average life – aside from the internship to save lives that is. Even so, he found that reading was a whole other experience from the world he wobbled around on, making tea, and taking naps. So that's what he wanted to spend his weekend doing. Reading. Except the books in his overly priced flat, near his university, were utterly useless. He wanted something enticing, something that could envelop him in curiosity and interest. Soppy romance novels didn't do the trick – he wasn't even sure why they were on his bookshelf in the first place. With that in mind, he had grabbed his winter coat, slipped on his shoes, and jogged blindly out the door, passing one of his neighbors on the way out.

"Morning Mr. Frankland." He greeted on his way towards the front door, after having locked up his flat, and prepared himself for a trip to the nearest London library.

"Watson, good to see you. You off then?" He ran a hand through his ashy white hair, and shot the leaving man a pleasant smile, or as pleasant as he could manage, as he was carrying shopping bags in the other dormant hand, which appeared incredibly heavy.

"Yeah, want grab something to read up on this weekend." John replied quickly, eager to allow the man to put away his groceries, and so that he, himself, would eventually make it to the bookstore.

"Right, right. Have a good one then." The man turned away, hiking up the building's terrifying flight of stairs, shopping bag swaying to and fro, clanging and clattering in the grip of his hand. John merely nodded, beamed politely, and took off out the front door.

The library he was used to was exceptionally beautiful – quite posh even. Its structure was unique and elegant, with curves and sharp edge forming an angelic exterior. It's hues were all a light brown, shaded with the lightest of subtle pinks, and the round, barbed columns welcomed you inside as though you were entering the depths of a mysterious museum. All the uni kids went there for assignments, or papers that were due the next day. John would always find it funny upon witnessing their constant panic over getting their work done – eyes red rimmed and circled in black from lack of sleep and energy drinks, or energy bars, sitting half consumed in front of them. A few scholars were there today, when John walked in, some lounging in desk chairs in front of computers or standing straight as pillars in front of the bookshelves. Some he recognized – friends even, but he wasn't in the mood to say "hi", so he simply went about his business, trotting towards the section labeled, "Anatomy" and "Biology". Those were some of his adventures when reading – he found the skeleton and muscle concept of the human body invigorating, and he always felt as though he could learn something new, and thus even improve his future medical career. It was both productive and beneficial – reading those books. That's why he found it enticing.

John made his way toward the back of the library, dodging familiar faces, and merely concentrating on the layers of books he currently passed. He then relieved himself of the bookshelves and turned to walk alongside the lounge area – receiving glimpses of people sat playing chess, or reading books at small wooden tables, expressions twisted into concentration.

And then he spotted dark curly hair. Pale skin. Slender fingers gripping the frame of a lime colored book casing. And much to his surprise, even the red, auburn hued dog was lying next to him – ever at his feet. John froze in his place, just inches away from where the figure sat, eyes drawn to every word, or sentence his story displayed – how many times was this going to happen?

John took a deep breath and then, without even announcing himself, simply stated, "Oh, _come on_. This has to be coincidence."

Sherlock, his head still tucked into the depths of his papered friend, cleared his throat and shook his head minutely, "I don't believe in coincidence."

John scoffed and scooted himself towards the table, so that he was now sat directly before Sherlock Holmes, of whom he still couldn't get a good look at, blocked by the book's bright cover. "Do you believe in fate?"

"Not specifically."

John grinned at his response and shrugged his shoulders, eyeing the books Sherlock had stacked up on the wooden surface with intrigue, "What do you believe in then?"

The boy before him still didn't look up; he merely wiggled his head slightly, causing his curls to shuffle joylessly, "Science. Art. Mathematics. Sound evidence, John."

The kid, John should really stop referring to him as one, looked up then and suddenly his reason for hiding his face became blatantly palpable. Along his cheekbone, and circling his multicolored eyes, a large black and blue bruise was sprouting, darkening in a lack of light and causing the boy to appear impeccably pitiful. Just below his eyebrow was utterly tragic, swollen skin elevated in protest. Sherlock looked utterly bored with John's gaping expression, but refrained from stating anything at all, much to John's aggravation.

"What happened to your face?" John questioned bluntly, and narrowed his eyes at the state of his friend – was he his friend?

"How very polite, John." Sherlock growled sarcastically, and went about staring at his book again – perhaps reading, perhaps not.

John swallowed the lump slowly forming in his throat, and reached forward to gently inspect the wound, only for Sherlock to violently flinch away just as John's thumb grazed the bruised skin. John watched in disbelief, as the boy before him almost cowered into himself due to the lingering open palm.

He drew back in mute suspicion, and bobbed his head reassuringly, "Sorry. Doctor's instincts."

Sherlock was quick to counter John's excuse, "You're not a doctor yet."

The medical intern chuckled in defeat, finding the statement highly ironic, since their last conversation. "Thanks for reminding me."

They merely stared at one another for a moment, John narrowing his eyes to scope out the severity of Sherlock's injury without touching, and Sherlock most likely deducing John's every move. It was at that moment that Sherlock swallowed noticeably, cringed, and shut his eyes. The intern grimaced and leaned closer to the boy's hunched over sitting position, eager to comfort him, but not knowing how without placing a hand on his shoulder or something of the sort.

"Are you okay?"

Sherlock nodded only faintly, and blinked several times before exhaling rather deeply, "M'fine."

John sighed in relief and cleared his throat, "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you," He paused, "You know – _before_."

"Not scared."

"Sherlock."

"John," The boy snapped back, and Redbeard flinched under the table, head slowly moving upwards to catch a glimpse of his owner, double checking the situation, and then lowering once more.

"What happened to your face?" John tried again, but he was unsuccessful – as he assumed he would be.

"Why do you care?" Sherlock asked, one brow arched in apprehension, while John shook his head in frustration.

The boy in front of him seemed disconnected, utterly drowned out from the chaos of the world, the manic moods of every human being around him; simply too overwhelmed in his own mind, his own thoughts, his own imagination. John did, in fact, pity him – he hated pitying people, as he despised pity himself. But he couldn't help it. The boy was so very innocent that it made him appear guilty all the same.

John answered Sherlock's question with a shrug, "I don't know."

"Come now, John." The teenager scoffed, shaking his head in some state of annoyed disbelief.

"What?" John was appalled – did the boy think he was lying? He wasn't. He had absolutely no idea why he was sitting here, in this old-fashioned library, before a kid who was really too skinny to even be moving around, and impeccably confusing. Not to mention the dog.

Sherlock cleared his throat, and shifted in his seat, sliding his book to the side, and appearing awfully weary. "What do you want from me?"

John froze, besides the arch of a brow. _Want?_ John didn't want anything. Not that he knew of. Other than the desire to help, John was at a loss when it came to his answer, and this seemed to result in a smug Sherlock Holmes.

"We've run into each other three times now, not including today, and so far I've been rude, obtrusive, and enigmatic. I smoke, I don't eat enough, and I show up with strange contusions. Yet, here you are. Sitting in front of me. You haven't _run_."

John Watson, the medical intern, could merely swallow, blink, and look down at his hands, folded horizontally on the surface of the wooden table.

"You're concerned about me. Why?" Sherlock paused, narrowed his eyes, cocked his head to the side, and then stiffened, expression falling flat and oddly aggressive. "You pity me."

John looked up once he heard those words – just in time to catch Sherlock turning away, lids closed in disgust, and nose scrunched up irritably; his hands on his temples, finger spinning in firm circles.

The teenager huffed, licked his lips, gulped thickly, and shook his head, "For God's sake."

John found himself angry at the way the boy had reacted upon someone simply caring about him, someone feeling sympathetic for him.  
"How do you expect me not to?" John exclaimed, his aggravated shout exiting as a subtle whisper among the readers inside the depths of the library.

The boy eyes were glazed over in a sort of disappointed fury, fingers appearing as though they were trembling, long brown curls flopping lazily as the boy sighed and dropped his head, to stare down at the table.

His voice was soft as he spoke once more, barely even audible amongst the hushed chatting surrounding the library's soothing aura, "John, I _loathe_ pity. It makes me look weak."

Weakness: John knew it well. It was degrading, demeaning, and the most vulnerable of emotions one could possibly struggle through. But everyone needs to be weak – once in a while.

It is, of course, only _human_.

"What's wrong with being weak? You can't always be strong, you know." John informed the teen, voice softer now, the anger he had only just felt swiftly fading away to something more along the lines of trepidation and concern.

"But I have to, John. I _have_ to." The boy's deep baritone suddenly sounded so very weak, and he looked undoubtedly vulnerable, sitting there, in the wooden library, desk chair, head hanging in defeat, eyes solemn, book flipped to a random page he wasn't even going to attempt to read.

At this point in their conversation, John was noticing just how very comfortable they were – the boy was sharing things with him in an apprehensive manner, as though this was his first time truly venting to another being, who actually displayed an interest in what he thought or felt. John summoned his courage (he'd never been good at the talking part – at least, not as good as he was at the listening) and inched forward in his chair, eyes fixated on Sherlock's frazzled state, eager to comfort him with a warm hand, but positive the teen would flee under any sort of physical connection.

"_Why_, Sherlock?" John began softly and attentively, "Why can't you be weak?"

At that, John witnessed the boy's willingness to share crash and burn, ultimately observing as he adjusted his position in his chair, sat up straight, and cleared his throat. He was closing down, shutting everyone out. Perhaps this was the boy's problem. He couldn't depend on anyone. Distrust? Or, maybe, there was simply no one for him to actually depend _on_.

"What have you deduced of me, John?"

"Deduced?"

"Yes. You know how I work."

"Work?"

"It only seems fair that you determine who I am for yourself. Since I had to do so with you."

John let out a sharp laugh, partially irritated and partially stunned by disbelief, "Now, hold on. You didn't _have_ to _deduce_ it. You could have just asked me!"

The teenager scoffed, openly ignoring the apparently _lame _excuse John was attempting to use, "Go for it, John. You already have plenty of evidence accessible to you – what you've heard, witnessed, discovered." Sherlock smirked, "Give it a go, won't you?"

_Okay._ John was pretty sure the kid was trying to publicly embarrass him, "No, I'm not going to sit here and make a fool of myself."

"I shan't judge. Scout's honor."

John sighed and shook his head in surrender, rubbing a hand over the bridge of his nose and just above his brow line. He then gazed calculatingly at the kid, looking back on all he had learned, what he'd asked the teen, what the baker lady (Hudson?) had mentioned, and how Sherlock had just reacted moments ago to the idea of blatant weakness. John peered at his slender, trembling fingers; his pale flawless skin; his bright, multicolored, cautious eyes tainted with the purplish black bulge of a swollen contusion. In appearance, he was grand – but honestly, _and he would despise John thinking this, _so very weak. So thin, too thin, and tall, lean – exhausted.

He seemed utterly _exhausted_.

John cleared his throat, blinked several times, and then took a deep breath.  
"Well," he hesitated, "I suppose from what the woman in the café said –"

"Ms. Hudson."

"_Ms. Hudson_," John licked his lips nervously and then continued, "you clearly come from a damaged household – how damaged? I don't know, but definitely so. You spend a lot of time on the streets, I would say, seeing how you appear wholly comfortable with your setting, and the fact that you were street performing." John eyed Sherlock, but the boy gave away nothing, his face merely blank, emotionless. "You smoke, I've seen that, but smoking is also a stress reliever – perhaps that's something of significance? Dunno."  
John shrugged and Sherlock arched a brow, eyes narrowed in suspicion, "Is that all?"

The intern nodded in an unfortunate manner, and the teenager quirked a small smile, which John ultimately found annoying, and yet oddly gratifying.

"So?"

Sherlock let out a short breath, "So."

The medical student rolled his eyes and groaned, "So, can you clarify please?"

"Why?"

"_Why_ – because I want to know you, Sherlock."

"Why?"

John grimaced and shook his head, flushing immensely, feeling utterly guilty, "Because," he paused, "You're fantastic."

Going by the boy's facial expression, he certainly wasn't expecting such a response, but he covered his surprise instantly.  
Shutting him out – _again_. Interesting.

"I smoke because I'm not allowed to."

John was startled, and he quickly leaned forward attentively, "What?"

"I smoke because I'm not allowed to, and, yes, because it takes the edge off the stress. I have a home, yes it is, in fact, damaged," John's mouth opened faintly, but Sherlock only raised a dismissive hand, "And, yes, before you ask, I am fed there – occasionally."

John narrowed his eyes – _what's that supposed to mean?_

"I do, also, spend most of my time on the streets, as to not be at home, and I make quite the income from performing – which I in turn use to buy cigarettes." The boy faltered on his last statement, as though he was holding back on the whole truth – but John didn't push him. Not yet.

The medical intern nodded, thoroughly taking in all the flowing information, and then he paused to ask a question, "So that's the _what_, what about the _why_?"

"Sorry?" Sherlock looked genuinely confused.

"Why do you spend so much time on the street, why do you need to street perform in the first place, why are you stressed, why is your household _damaged_?"

The teenager before him merely blinked, and swallowed, "John."

John blushed, shook his head, and dropped his eyes in shame, rubbing the bridge of his nose loathingly, "Sorry, _sorry._"

"I need," Sherlock paused, brow furrowing in deep concentration, "time."

"Course. I get it, trust me." John smiled softly, and rather apologetically.

"I don't," The boy hesitated, "_share_ with people. Ever."

"I noticed. Why not?"

Sherlock chuckled, "My god, you and all these _Why's." _

The medical intern bit the inside of his cheek and smirked wearily, hoping the boy would evidently forgive him.

"I don't share with people," Sherlock began, "because I know I'll scare them away."

John Watson winced inwardly at the statement, but quickly hid his concern once more, instead turning to beam at the teen, the sides of his eyes crinkling in enlightenment, "I'm not going anywhere. No worries."

The boy before him grinned probably the most charming grin in all of John's years of living.  
Damn. This kid definitely needs to smile more often.

"Thank you, John."

John found himself chuckling endlessly, "Wow, did you just _thank me_?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes in irritation. "Obviously, unless you were too darfed to realize it."

Then, they both smiled. Eyes on eyes, each corner of their mouths turned up in the slightest sign of happiness, enjoyment, delight, glee. John saw that the boy was troubled – that he was lonely, and far too independent for his own liking. And because John saw it, he was determined to do something about it. John would become his shoulder, whether they made physical comfort a thing or not.  
Because John Watson knew right now that Sherlock Holmes didn't need another brain, another mind, another person to squander ideas or add facts to the equation at hand. He merely needs someone reliable, competent, and dependable – and in John's mind, he fits the description rather perfectly.

At that point, the medical student had noticed the teen dissolve back into the world of the book he was currently reading, eyes vibrating across the words, obviously done with the rather intense conversation they had just partaken in.

John furrowed his brow, trying to catch a glimpse of the book title, "What's that then?"

Sherlock didn't look up from his story, and merely answered, "The laws of Physics."

John scoffed, "How exciting."

Sherlock did look up then, "Sarcasm?"

The intern smirked, "Yes."

"Right."

John turned his gaze to the small stack of books on top of the wooden surface, bearing mostly science titles, and odd authors with names he didn't even attempt to sound out. He pointed to one of the more interesting covers and raised a brow, "You mind?"

Sherlock shook his head and shrugged dismissively, "Be my guest."

John reached forward and grabbed, _Anatomy at its Best_, with a slight roll of his eyes.

Unwilling to read at that moment, he took the chance to gaze around the room, his sights landing on the suspicious expressions of others, glaring firmly his way or staring in curiosity. He cleared his throat and followed their line of sight to the large red dog at the side of Sherlock's plimsolls. He let out a choked laugh and shook his head in amusement, "How did you get him in here anyways?"

Sherlock glanced up and then back down at the, basically, textbook he was currently finding pleasure in reading, "Told the librarians I'm blind."

John nearly coughed up his disbelief, "Sorry, you did what?"

"Hm."

John scoffed and narrowed his eyes disbelievingly, "But how would you be able to read the books they have here? Surely, they caught on to that."

Sherlock hummed in agreement, "Yes, I faked a row. Not one of my best, but very convincing."

John chuckled, "Oh? And how's that?"

The teen raised his chin into the air, and put on the most human expression he could conger, "_Are you going to deprive me of my freedom because of, what you call, a disability? Of all the inconsiderate_," Sherlock stopped his imitation there and grinned mischievously, "And it soon escalated thereafter."

John couldn't stop laughing. Really, he couldn't. Whether it was Sherlock's attempt at humanity, or the stupidity of the bookstore clerks. "Damn."

Sherlock smirked, "Yes, quite."


	5. Work, Worry, Work, Worry

_A/N: Oh, Loki. I'm sorry this took so long! _  
_Please forgive me readers!_  
_Anyways, here you are!  
_

_Sorry this one's a bit shorter. xC  
__The next update will come sooner this time!_

_Please review to let me know you're still with me!_  
_-All the best!_

_*Trigger warnings for bullying. _  
_And also the mention of child abuse._

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**Chapter 5: **_Work, Worry, Work, Worry_

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It had been a week; a week of more torturous interning and ridiculously pompous, know-it-all doctors. John had been hoping to run into Sherlock again, perhaps once more at the bench in the park or in the little diner, of which he may or may not have visited quite frequently throughout his work week. The boy had quite frankly vanished. And John was off his mind worried.

He could use his own powers of deduction to calculate the enigmatic reason behind Sherlock's injury, the bruise to the side of his face, and the fact that he admitted to living in a damaged household. John Watson has never been an idiot. But he also wasn't one to jump too quickly to conclusions. So, he had set a plan in motion. If Sherlock Holmes shows up with more contusions, of any kind, he would approach the boy on the subject of parental neglect, and abuse – of which, he hoped to God wasn't the real reason behind his wound. If he no longer appeared beaten up or bruised, John would simply ask who had done it the first time. His plan was lovely – it was convenient and not too obtrusive, and he wanted to be this kid's friend and show his support and his will to care for him. And then Sherlock Holmes hadn't shown up. And his plan had crumbled.

It was quite irritating – he never exchanged numbers with the teen, nor had he established any sort of meeting spot or, frankly, relationship. He inwardly murdered himself for that, because all he could think about now was one important question: where the hell is Sherlock Holmes?

John really thought he was simply overreacting. Sure, he'd had a heart-to-heart with the boy, but that didn't give him the right to baby him. He was acting like the father to a stubborn teenage girl: where are you going, who are you with, what are you doing?

He sighed, attempting to knock his mind clean with thoughts and start the day fresh; it was of course Friday and he wanted to end the week on a high note – what a week it had been: work, worry, work, worry, work, worry. Even taking a sip of the dreadful coffee from the hospital cafeteria didn't startle him awake; all he could think about was if Sherlock Holmes was okay, if he was hurt, if he was scared, if he was –

_"John?"_

The intern's head flew upwards, surprisingly helping him to forget his worry for a moment, as he caught sight of Mike Stamford standing beside his lunch table, holding a chicken sandwich and a flask of, most likely, hot tea. He smiled wearily as his friend sat down before him, grinning as he started to unwrap his meal for the day.

"You look a mess, mate." Mike commented, leaning forward to take a huge bite of loose chicken.

John scoffed and nodded his head, "Thanks, Mike."

His friend chuckled, and took a tissue to the side of his lip, wiping away whatever had originally been there, "The bird is out tonight, with a couple of her girls. Want to hit the pub?"

It sounded tempting – oh, so tempting.  
What would he be doing if he didn't go?  
The same as he had been doing all week – fretting over a kid he _barely knew_.

"Sure, why not." John sighed in exasperation, "I could use a drink."

Mike let out a laugh and bobbed his head up and down whilst chewing on a chunk of sandwich, "Trust me, mate. I can tell."

John winced and took another sip of his bitter coffee.

It had been relaxing, to say the least. John had sat in his bar seat for most of the night, simply sipping on a large bottle of beer, while Mike had spat out joke after joke – to which John couldn't help but laugh at. A few women had approached him, as well, as the night went on; chatting him up and seductively tucking their phone numbers into his breast pocket.

Mike had always leaned forward after that and sniggered, "You might want to take up a few of those offers, Watson."  
John only shrugged and responded with, "They're just expecting some kind of doctor foreplay."

They would laugh after that, express between the two of them how confused they were upon debating why 'being a doctor' was such a turn on.  
Then John would ask Mike a little about how his relationship is going, and he would merely reply, "Fantastic, John. Now how about you?"  
John would glare playfully at him, and take another sip of his beer.

Overall, he had forgotten about his constant concern for the mystifying kid named Sherlock Holmes. Until, they left the pub.

Mike was pulling on his coat as John made his way out the swinging doors and into the frigid night air. He sighed in content upon realizing he had no work the next day – he could lounge around the house all he wanted to, drink tea, and read books. A pat on his shoulder jolted him back to reality and grinned over at his friend, tugging his jumper farther down and around him as they took to walking down the sidewalk. They didn't divulge in conversation for the most part – they simply marched on, gazing at their surroundings with thoughtful expressions.

And it was then that John saw him, across the street, on the opposite walkway; his gray hooded sweatshirt was encaging, head of hair hidden, so that merely his sharp facial features stood out in contrast. His navy blue jeans just made his legs appear longer, and his plimsolls glided across the gravel with a sort of guarded tension. Redbeard was closer to him than usual, crimson and orange fur waving in the cool breeze as his paws clicked on the concrete ground. Behind him trailed a group of three male teens, perhaps the same age, perhaps a little older. They all had conniving sneers twisting their expressions as they nudged one another and sniggered audibly. John's feet had stop moving. He had merely frozen in place, staring with narrowed eyes, dazed as he focused on one human being in particular – the boy he had been worrying about all week upon his disappearance. And there he was, safe and sound – or as well off as he could be.

Mike had already turned to watch John in confusion, features seemingly perplexed as the intern strolled forward, checking the road, and jogging to the opposite sidewalk. He let his heart carry him, growing closer and closer to the teen, while the calls of the three pursuers echoed through the London air.

_"Hey, freak!"_ One of them shouted, pace quickening as he attempted to walk alongside Sherlock.  
Another did the same, joining their friend in his amusement. _"Hey, we're talking to you!" _

John observed, as he kept striding forwards, Sherlock inching a little into their view.

_"What happened to your face, freak?"_ One of the boys, with quite an ugly pig-like face, mocked and John felt his heart drop in his chest.

He was running now, ignoring Mike Stamford's questioning as he followed behind.  
He didn't drown out the other teens – he listened intently to their insults, picking up whatever information he could.

_"Did someone finally teach you a lesson?"_

_"Oi, I bet his father did that to 'im."_

_"Does your father beat you, freak?"_

_"Look at him, lads! He's too bloody twisted for his own parents!"_

John was cringing, and grimacing, and he was almost there, almost to him. Pig-face stepped into the action, and with both palms lifted, he shoved Sherlock forwards, causing him to stumble slightly, eager to recover from his loss of balance.

_"Hey!"_ John snapped, and was finally next to him. Their eyes met – Sherlock's own were blank, so very broken, and it was terrifying. His complexion was no longer pale, but ghostly white, and his brow was furrowed in an expression of constant agony. And, needless to say, not only was his eye still tinted a light, healing blue, but his lip was split and his eyebrow was releasing a thin line of deathly shaded, red blood.

John whirled to glare at the three boys before him, now staring in confusion as the intern lifted his arms in some sort of protective barrier.  
"What the _hell_ is wrong with you?" His tone of voice was low, and threatening – strict and deadly.

The boy next to pig-face, who merely looked like a rat, smirked carelessly, shrugging his shoulders as though there was nothing wrong with the situation.  
"Just having a bit of fun, mate."

John scoffed in disgust, and glowered daggers at the human filth before him, "You call this fun?"

The teens looked at one another, sneering ruthlessly.

John shook his head and laughed mockingly at them, "You're_ pathetic._ Get out of here."  
His command was cold, harsh and so frightening the bullies glanced at one another, before turning around and jogging off into the foggy night. John let out a deep breath, unaware he had been holding it in the first place. Once he had composed himself, he turned to face Sherlock, whose posture was standing hunched, eyes on the ground. Redbeard was situated in a tense position, as though, if John were any second later, he would have made his attack.

John cleared his throat and leaned forward, feeling his doctor-mode come swelling back to him, "Sherlock," He began, "Sherlock, look at me."  
He didn't. Instead, he turned even farther away and went to carry on walking once more, albeit at a slow pace.

John growled in frustration, feeling only an overwhelming need to help this boy as he pushed forward to meet his eye. "Sherlock," John sighed.  
He reached forward gently, to place his hand on the boy's shoulder in an attempt to turn him back around; he received a violent flinch before the teen whirled to meet his eyes, a scowl present on his face amongst all the tragedy. John felt himself shiver at the icy expression, but he was determined to aid in whatever was troubling the dark-haired boy before him.

"Are you alright?" John was grasping onto Sherlock's wrist, concern evident on his features.  
The teen's eyelids dropped further, concealing the multicolored orbs below, as his head tilted downwards.

John sighed and shook his head eagerly, "Sherlock, did they do that to you?"  
He was sure he knew the answer – but he wanted to ask. He _needed_ to ask.

"Let _go_." The demand was growled in a low voice and John felt himself shudder at the sudden tone of enraged defeat. He quickly unfurled his fingers from the Sherlock's bony arm, and stared with wide eyes, as the boy didn't move an inch, merely stayed put, as though frozen in place.

"Sherlock, I need to have a look." John pleaded with him, gaze inspecting the gash above his eyelid and across his bottom lip, blood still oozing around the remnants that had already dried. The intern attempted to get a better look, thumb rising to carefully hold Sherlock by the jaw, eager to examine the injuries further, but he drew away upon witnessing the teen recoil in fear, and the dog at his feet growling lowly in a desperate undertone.

"Don't _touch_ me." Sherlock snapped suddenly, once again hiding his face from John's searching eyes. The intern swallowed and sighed, the tension remaining as Sherlock sniffed softly under his breath, "Just, leave me alone. _Please_."

And then, he was striding away, pace eager to flee the situation, eager to be left to his own company. John watched him go, observing the dog slowly trotting beside him, as he tucked his hands into his pocket, dropped his head, and disappeared around the corner.

_"John?"_

John twisted around, eyes latching onto Mike Stamford, stood there appearing slightly dazed with confusion.  
The intern cleared his throat, feeling slightly guilty for just forgetting about his friend who had, ultimately, witnessed the whole ordeal.

"_God_, sorry Mike." John apologized, looking down at his shoes, the stress of more worry flooding in once again.

Mike took a few steps forward, drawing in closer to John before the two began their walk again, "What was that?"

John winced, "I honestly don't know."

Mike arched a brow in curiosity, "Who's the kid, then?"

"Sherlock Holmes." The intern exhaled wearily, and attempted to pull off a smile for his friend.

"He seems a bit unpleasant."

John grimaced at the statement, a wary rage forming at the bottom of his stomach – he tried to remember Mike was merely going off what he had just seen. "He really isn't – once you get to know him." John shrugged and chuckled sadly, "Hell, I've only talked to him a whole of three times and he fascinates me."

Mike craned his neck in surprise, swaying a little as he walked beside John, "Why's that?"

"He's so smart, Mike. So clever. A legitimate genius. No joke."

His friend smiled and nodded thoughtfully, "But?"

John sighed, "But he's also secretive; enigmatic. A right mystery."

"And you don't know why?"

"I don't know much about him in general, to be honest."

"What _do_ you know?"

John considered the question, narrowing his eyes in serious thought, "I think he's lonely. He's also the definition of rebellious. And I know he doesn't really want to go home, so he spends most of his time on the streets."

Mike cocked his head slightly at that, obviously thinking it over, as he stared dead ahead, and then back at John, "Maybe he's just involved with the wrong crowd of people?"

John bobbed his head back and forth in contemplation, "I thought that at first as well, but he's the opposite of social."

Mike chuckled, "Mystery _indeed_."

"Yeah."

"Why's he got you so frantic?"

John took a deep breath, and cleared his throat, "I don't know. I just feel like he needs someone who will take the time to understand him; someone who will be patient with him."

"And that someone is you, then?"

John shrugged, and scoffed in a lack of confirmation, "I guess, but I won't really be giving him much of a choice."

Mike lit up, "That's the John Watson I know."


End file.
